


Love Poem to the Fears

by badpainting



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Experimental Style, Gen, Horror, Love Poems, Poetry, Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:35:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23685514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badpainting/pseuds/badpainting
Summary: A short experimental piece, along with a little poem. Mostly about the buried, but also corruption and desolation themes.
Kudos: 1





	Love Poem to the Fears

Do you read it? We whisper softly in his ears of all turns we made. We expect him to wish. He does not expect to fill his mouth with us. The little words all hum and buzz as he haunts the graveyards. He works in tandem with the worms. They love how he feeds them, pouring little packaged parcels of flesh into their little loving mouths. They all writhe for him, waiting and wailing each meal before he comes. He comes too close. We must give him all the space he needs. He watches the stars, dreaming of the shovel that could pour soil down his throat. Can we? He would enjoy it so. We like him to like. He writes love poems to the sea. He loves how it loves him less. Each time turning its fog round him closer. Holding him in nothing like the human touch. The fingers tickle up his sides, he knows just how to mask. He has always just forgotten our name. We wait, he will perhaps. We never saw him turn down an open door without smiling warmly. Can he shiver? The shovel is thudding again. His manic eyes as dirt laughingly escapes his choking gasps. We love him. We all our little mouths. Could he set a fire? The us we made of wax adores him. He adores the lamp we watched him leave. He smells the burning meat too. It feeds him. We want him to write us again. We adore him. His feet are creeping closer, feeding, feeding, feeding. Can you see his hands? You shouldn’t be able to. He should be just behind your back. Are we pushing now? Pinching? We like the pushing better, there are so many adoring and loving directions we could push us to. He asks us who us is, and we say we wish to be. He shuffles. His bandaged hands. The holes are not filling now and all the little mouths are weeping. He should be weeping. Can we pull a string and make him be? We adore him. We want him to be full. The knife is slipping in his fingers, too small for his bones. Too small for his flesh. We wait for the chill. We are waiting. He tells of how many of us there are. We whisper to us that he is wrong. He builds us. We love the building. The waiting dark he creates lets us step on echoing tiles to nowhere. Do we love him? It all should have been. He didn’t keep it. We wish to be. He soothes. He’s runnning out. He’s running out of food to feed us. Make him find it. He seeks it out. We will not adore. We can only simply take. His feet are us now. They have been us, always us. We will tell him where to place them. He continues to place them all wrong. We do not adore him. He leaves a flame all wrong. He is smiling not for us now. He still dreams. Little whispers in the night of his love. We ask one last of him. The hungry mouths are crying for their father.

***

Oh! In’t it so soft, my violence,

To see the bones under the earth all curled

Together. And think, my dear, how ancient

We must seem, all bones entiwined. What

Must they think of us? What stories do they

Tell about what we might have thought and been.

Can we be family? How have I helped

In burying your bones in a way that

We might not be found for years? Or I might,

Might could be and lose, not you, but something like.

I lost you! I can see a shovel in

My mind. But all aside, there is no way

To find you, dig you revealed again,

Where you never lay softly breathing.

My, my. I wish I could be underground

With you and no breath in weighted safety.

Could I tell to love you? Or ideas

They could dream up for us neverending.

Could rot take us for a while? We could

Leave it be, let it amuse itself with

What remains on our bones, while I love you.


End file.
